


Lay Down Your Arms

by adamwhatareyouevendoing



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Devotion, Discipline, F/M, First Time, GET IT AETHELFLAED, Knife Kink, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28984593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing/pseuds/adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: Following the Battle of Tettenhall, Aethelflaed gives Aldhelm a lesson in obedience.
Relationships: Aethelflaed Lady of Mercia/Aldhelm (The Last Kingdom)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 13





	Lay Down Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

> They can have a little post-battle smut, as a treat.

Firelight spills their silhouettes onto canvas as Aldhelm slips into Aethelflaed’s tent, his boots brushing bare earth to stand before her.

She still wears her armour, even now.

“Lady,” he says, uncertain where else to begin. Even he cannot tell whether it is endearment or respect, after all that has passed today and with all that is to come.

“You know why I invited you here,” Aethelflaed says, without inflection. The fine arch of her brow begs a response even though it is not voiced as a question.

“I believe so,” he replies, head bowed, falling faithful to his knees.

There is a familiar spark of warmth in her eyes as she looks down on him, at odds with the air of languid authority she exudes. “And yet you came.”

“You asked it of me, Lady. I’m not in the habit of refusing your call.”

“Just my orders, then,” she returns, at once tender and testing. Her smile has lost the ease of earlier, but there is still faint affection lingering at the edges, wry and without hope or expectation of an apology. “You will learn. It’s merely a matter of discipline.”

Her tone is different, now. From her belt she draws the knife he held to her, the glint of its blade catching candlelight.

“Tonight, I am not Mercia, and you are not its protector. Tonight, I am simply your Lady, and you will obey me.” Her fingertips graze his cheek, softening the words but not her command. “Let me have this,” she adds.

It carries with it an echo of his name, whispered soft on the wind. He will not deny her again.

He clears his throat enough to speak. “And what does my Lady command?”

Whatever price she demands, he is willing to pay it. No matter the cost.

Aethelflaed’s expression slips into one of cool interest as she regards him—knees pressed into the dirt, hands clasped at rest behind his back, his eyes fixed on hers. He swallows and shifts, aching under the weight of her steady appraisal, suddenly aware of the invitation his whole body has become beneath her gaze and beneath the blade she places flat against his throat, skin warm where it meets steel.

He wonders if the awareness of it, heavy with temptation, prickles along her spine, too.

“You will undress,” she says, stark in the silence. “Coat and mail.”

He remains in worship at her feet, stripping away belt and armour under her watchful gaze, defenceless in the soft dark—all his quiet focus fixed purely on her words, on the dull clink of mail between his hands. He cannot permit himself to reach beyond, to dwell on the need stirring low in his stomach.

This is the ransom she will extract.

“Good,” Aethelflaed murmurs, moving in a slow, deliberate circle around him. He finds himself pleased to have provoked the self-satisfied expression she wears.

“What else might my Lady desire?” he chances, savouring the sharp-edged smile she throws at him.

He tilts his chin in deference to the blade she returns to his throat, point pressed to the soft underside of his jaw, demanding to be felt but light enough not to scratch the skin.

He would bleed for her, if she wished it, but punishment is not the aim of this starlit scene.

This is purely about surrender.

“It seems I require your assistance in a matter of utmost importance, Lord Aldhelm,” she muses, and he can see the signs of her own undoing despite the affectation of calm she exudes—pupils dilated, chest rising and falling with rapid breath and with burning need to satisfy that nameless urge for relief, companion to his own.

He lowers his eyes to hide the answering spark of recognition so that she might remain unaware of its existence, so that she might retain control.

“I am at your service, Lady,” he says, cast in the true image of fealty.

She knows, of course, but he would have her hear it, to know beyond all doubt before she offers herself to his observance.

Before he has chance to gain purchase on her next words, before the fervent heat of her velvet voice can stir him wholly to distraction, she has darted down to press a quick kiss to his temple.

He blinks up at her, dazed by her devotion. The brush of her lips, though brief, is enough to dispel any lingering uncertainty over her quiet invitation, leaving only anticipation in its wake.

“I gave you an order, Aldhelm,” she says, and the smile that curves at her lips now is almost playful.

He follows her the few paces it takes to bring them to the furs serving as a bed, closing the scant space between their bodies to reach up and unwind the cord binding the circlet of her braided hair until it spills over his hands in loose waves, marvelling at the length of it as she turns her back to him.

“Maybe I should have started with this,” he laughs, low, contemplating the cross of coarse stitching working its way up her spine and securing her cuirass.

Aethelflaed returns his amusement, obligingly gathering her unbound hair over her shoulder to expose the lacing and the sweep of her neck to his hungry gaze. Even unimpeded, it is slow work. Her hand gently stills his ministrations, and before he can protest, she has pressed the knife into his palm.

“I can acquire new lacing,” she tells him, her meaning plain.

He complies, despite the helpless urge for dispute that rises within him, reluctant to wield a blade against her again, even with this intent. She commands, and he must obey.

It is not solely the reason, of course, even if it is the reason he chooses to focus on. It’s easier not to dwell on the thoughts he is half-certain she shares—of the curve of her body against his, shivering with a heady mix of fear and strange desire.

If he had found himself affected then, it is nothing compared to this.

There is no sound beyond their wet breathing and the rasp of the blade as he steps close, working with an unexpectedly calm precision. It is a miracle for his fingers that his hand does not shake. The garment falls away with ease, now, prised free of its stitching.

Another gentle command follows, and he is swift to obey, divesting her of the remaining leathers—belt, boots and bracers—so she is clad only in soft linen.

She trembles before him, though whether from the slight evening chill or anticipation he cannot tell. For his part, he is aching from the careful attentions and longing for nothing more than to take her in his arms.

All these years they have spent only knowing each other by halves, abiding the line between head and heart, between duty and desire. It is hard to reason why, now.

If ruin lies ahead for them, it is not to be found in the soft slide of her palms across his chest as she draws his shirt over his head, nor in the line of breathless kisses he bestows along her shoulder, first veiled with silk and then skin alone.

“My lady,” he whispers, soft as a breath in the silence. There is no greater compliment he can give, no other sign of devotion he could swear that would carry the same weight with it, no adoration more worthy of her. “What are your orders?”

Her smile is sheer radiance in the semi-darkness as she raises a gentle palm to his cheek.

“No more orders, Aldhelm,” she replies. “I would ask for nothing more than you are willing to give. Lay down your arms, and lie with me.”

It is voiced as an invitation rather than a command, but as he sinks to his knees on the furs before her, he knows there is no request she could make that he would be unwilling to oblige in the name of her pleasure.

Her forehead, her lips, the curve of her throat and the sweep of her clavicle fall first beneath his slow caress, savouring the slight hitch in her breathing that accompanies the worship of his lips.

“Aldhelm,” she gasps on a shaky exhale as the nearest candle flickers and burns itself out.

“Yes, my Lady?” he teases, ignoring the quirk of her eyebrow as he moves deliciously down towards the swell of her breast and the rise of her stomach.

He pauses between her parted legs, awaiting her blessing.

“Aldhelm, please,” she sighs, and whether she means the words to be an echo of those on the battlefield or not, this time he obeys.

There is no victory he has known sweeter than the taste of her on his tongue as leans in to make his reverence at the altar of her thighs, the soft arch of her back and the gentle pressure of encouraging fingers in his hair as she sends muffled prayer to the heavens.

He has loved her, these long years, with hope but without expectation. It is only now, as she comes apart on his fingers, that he truly understands its significance.

Sometimes, the unexpected can bloom into something far more beautiful.

He presses one final, lingering kiss to her trembling thigh, spurring himself to leave the warmth of her body despite his reluctance.

“Stay,” she says, as though sensing his indecision, finding his hand over the furs and entwining their fingers. He draws himself obligingly up her body to find uncertainty warring with the unguarded affection in her eyes. “Let me bring you pleasure.”

There is a moment, after every battle, where even the victors must weigh the sacrifices against the spoils to determine whether its conquest was worthy of the effort.

She is waiting, he realises, to be judged as such.

“You already have,” he tells her, with aching heart, raising their joined hands to his lips and pressing a delicate kiss to the backs of her fingers. “I am yours,” he vows.

“Good,” Aethelflaed murmurs, perfectly satisfied once more. Only she could make it sound like praise.

Her free hand slips between them to undress him further—light, teasing touches intended to drive him to distraction, if the victorious smile she flashes up at him is any indication. Her quiet moan when she frees him from the confines of the fabric feels like reward enough.

“In case you’re thinking of protesting, you are the only man I trust in this,” she says, a warm whisper into his ear.

He hides his smile in her hair. “A heavy burden, indeed. Perhaps I might suggest someone more fitting for the role?”

“I am yours,” she returns, arch and amused. “I’m tired of denying myself simple pleasures, and I’m tired of denying you. I want you, Aldhelm,” she says simply.

It would take a stronger man than him to disobey her now.

He groans at the touch of her fingers as she guides him between her parted legs, rising on his forearms to gaze down on her as he pushes slowly inside. Her cheeks are flush, parted lips drawing greedy breath as he fills her, wild eyes fixed on his in a pure reflection of his own undoing. They have both been lonely too long.

They find and settle into an easy rhythm together, languid and then frantic by turns—the press of her thighs and heels spurring him forwards until they are both breathless in pursuit of that final, sweet abandon. Aldhelm stifles a moan against her breast as she clenches around him, riding out her pleasure even as his own comes over him. In that moment, they know each other entire.

“Have I learnt my lesson, do you think?” he murmurs after a few precious heartbeats, still muffled by her skin.

Aethelflaed’s quiet laugh as he settles beside her warms him more than the furs she pulls over their bodies ever could.

“We ought to practice again,” she decides. “Just to be certain.”

He never could refuse his lady, after all.


End file.
